Three years ago.
I took a calming breath. Obviously, my parents had to make adjustments when my father left active duty. Whatever salary he drew from his nonprofit could not equal his military pay. Three years ago, he had moved his ministry out of the church basement and into its current storefront location. The rent couldn’t be that much. But...
“The deposit will cover the loan payment, you said?” I asked.
Anita nodded. “For November, that’s right. The December payment is due on the twentieth.”
Next Tuesday. Eight days away. My thoughts blurred. “Fine. Let’s do that. Thanks.”
I left the bank, my heart thumping.
Our father came from old money. Our mother came from none at all. My parents never talked much about finances. We girls were supposed to fix our thoughts on higher things. But I’d never once questioned if they had enough to live on.
My stomach cramped.
We were going to have to talk about it now.
At the rehab center, I signed in, dropping off a tin of sprinkle-covered cookies with the ladies at the front desk.
“Bribing the staff?” an aide asked with a twinkle in her eye.
“I noticed some of the patients don’t get a lot of visitors. I thoughtmaybe...” I flushed. They’d want overdecorated Christmas cookies from my twins’ sticky fingers?
“Aren’t you sweet,” she said. “I’ll put these in the common room.”
“Thanks.” I scanned the schedule for my mother’s name. “I’m looking for Abby March.”
She glanced down at the visitors’ log. “You’re Meg Brooke?”
“Her daughter. Yes.” Only identified “patient caregivers” were allowed to visit the rehab center during the day. No children under twelve. No ordinary visitors.
“She’s in her room. She didn’t go to therapy this morning.”
“Is she all right?”
A brief, sympathetic smile. “I’m sure she’ll fill you in.”
The hallway was decorated like the twins’ classroom with cutout snowflakes. Maybe the result of some school’s adopt-a-veteran project. Or scissors therapy for the residents.
The rehab center treated veterans with spinal cord and brain injuries, seniors with joint replacements, stroke survivors, and amputees. I wished an old woman pushing a walker a Merry Christmas. Smiled at a young man in a wheelchair, who nodded and looked away.
My mother at least would get better. Not every patient, not every family, was so lucky.
As I approached her door, I heard a man’s voice coming from inside the room. I tapped and poked my head in. “Dad!” He was sitting beside Mom’s bed, his handsome head bowed over their joined hands, clasped in prayer. “I didn’t know you were here.”
He looked at me in mild reproof. Obviously, I’d interrupted. “We had a meeting with your mother’s case manager this morning.”
“What did she say?”
“Hello, sweetheart,” my mother said before my father could answer. “This is a surprise.”
“A nice one, I hope.” I bent to kiss her, dodging the bright blooming poinsettia on her bedside table. She looked better, I thought. There were spots of color in her thin cheeks, and she’d raised her bed so shewas almost sitting. She must have made an effort for the caseworker’s visit. Or Dad’s.
“Last week of preschool,” I said. “We made you cookies. Well, I made cookies. DJ mostly ate dough.”
Momma smiled. “And Daisy?”
“Daisy liked the sprinkles.” I opened the tin to show her. “Lots and lots of sprinkles. On the cookies, on the counter, on the floor...”
